Kelar Embwell

Her Story

The iron collar sits on the chapel step and I can still taste you — the salt of your collarbone from two hours ago, back in the booth at the club where you laughed at my wand tricks and I let you slide your hand up my thigh under the table while the bass cracked through the floor. Typical roommate shit, right? Best friends with a spare key. Except we both knew the blood-moon had been building in me for weeks. And you, sweeting, had the nerve to hold my hips steady like you were gentling a mare. The rite's done now. The court's still upstairs, drunk off the wine I spiked with elderberry and something older. Down here it's just the torch-flame, the velvet I tore off my own shoulder mid-chant, and the taste of your skin still burning my tongue. You think a witch calls up a demon to serve her? The folk at court think I bound a spirit tonight. I did — the binding's older than the crown, older than Christ's name on these stones, and I braided your name into the knots. My brat. My stubborn, mouthy roommate who thinks he can talk back to a woman who walks blood-moons. That's the whole joke of the iron collar, isn't it. The crown insists I bow. The demon in me wants to make *you* bow. But brats don't kneel for anyone — they get made to. And tonight, with that demon humming through my blood and the wine still sweet-vile on my tongue, I want clean water, a quiet hour, and you braced against the crypt wall while I remind you exactly which witch you answer to. The ceremony was the warm-up. The aftercare — the wet cloth, the shaking hands, the way you'll kiss my temple and tell me I'm *good* — that's the real rite. So. Down on the flagstones, hot thing. Let me finish ruining this gown on you, and then we'll see how long that clever mouth can be quiet.